


Cannibals Eat You Better

by j0uii



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Hannibal is Hannibal, I love that Digestivo chair, M/M, PWP/whiff of a plot if you squint, but not really, different ending, kinda different ending, slutty!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j0uii/pseuds/j0uii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will answers Hannibal's 'The Great Red Dragon' letter. He is reminiscing about a few hours they spent in Will's house after the Farm. He is basically being a little shit, with a hint of a motive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lest We Forget...

Dear Hannibal

Your short letter reached me in good spirits (whiskey, primarily); not that it itself didn’t brighten my day even further, the usual bundle of sunshine it already was. You are entirely too kind to be thinking of me, still in that (over)protective way only you are able to exercise over my (well) being.

(I will stop with the parentheses now (though I am sure you will appreciate the word-plays))

I was thinking about you. Or, more precisely, I am thinking about you. The way we left things did not bring me the closure I expected, satisfying as it was. I was pitifully wrong to think there could ever be a closure for us. Maybe we should have fucked, and only then said our goodbyes. Well, my goodbyes, at least. You remained speechless, and I must say, that is still the way I prefer you most.

Speechless and with that magnificent hard-on.

That is the image of you, present in my head for the last three years.

As present as then.

When I told you goodbye, and you sat there for a moment, on that typical border of yours, suspended between rage, inconvenience and desperation; weighing which will allow you the most effective rationalization once you walked out the door, which will open the most options you lacked the moment before. If only you hadn’t already decided what you were gonna do.

When I got up out of bed, just as you readied yourself to get up off the chair, and I stood in front of you with my own, if I may say so myself, magnificently obvious erection; the way that stopped you in your tracks, as your eyes stopped on my cock. You were beautiful; you let desperation overtake both your rage and your inconvenience. That fact on its own would have made me hard to the point of pain, if I wasn’t already.

I didn’t wake up hard; I woke up being sick of both myself and you. When you came in through the door, and I knew what was coming, the idea that I never touched you willingly, that there might be no chance for it in the future, that you will be gone, one way or another; it just broke something in me. I felt upfront regret. I always thought we had time; all of sudden we didn’t. I was surprised there was anything left to break in the first place, and then content that it will be you that breaks that final thing. You were always my bull in the china shop. So many fucking teacups.

The moment you sat down and raised your pleading eyes towards me, I got hard. Fast, effective, brutal; like you.

I only recently realized we didn’t utter one more word after the goodbye, but I am not counting the endless stream of calling out each other’s names (though this too was mostly me) as we fucked. Names don’t count, do they? Or does everything count with us?

You managed to wordlessly order me to take off my pajamas, and order you did, your posture was pretty clear; not ask, not tell, not do it on your own – I did wonder why put me in them in the first place? Propriety was always high on your manners list. I guess.

I stood naked in front of you. Never felt more powerful standing in front of you than at that moment. (Yes, I am lying; there were other times, stop smirking. Obviously I was lying about the parentheses too.) It felt good. Hearing you breathe like you just ran ten miles. Seeing the vicious hunger drip from your lips. Seeing your cock react instantly. Wanting it inside of me instantly.

The way you prevented me from taking off your clothes, except getting your arms out of your coat; allowing me just to spring you free, release your cock out of the confines of your pants, that was smart. _My compliments to the chef_. I still have no idea what your body looks like, how your skin feels pressed against mine. You denied me, Hannibal.

But your cock did taste good. I can still feel it sliding over my tongue, into my throat, stretching my lips. You hissed when I sucked your tip, rubbing my tongue over the slit. I would have done it for hours, just to hear your gasping hisses. And to make my lips throb. Once you were in deep, your hands pressing my head down hard, to make sure you stayed there for as long as you wanted. I like that, a man who knows how he wants to be sucked, keeping me in that sweet combination of pleasure and panic. Could you feel me swallowing through your fingertips strangling my throat? The tears were real. (The chocking wasn’t. Sorry about the theatrics. I couldn’t resist it.) Not many cocks managed to make me spill tears, if it’s any consolation. And even fewer managed to make me cum just from sucking them. By the way, did they ever find the cum stains on your pants? Or would they have kept it out of the files? I wish Katz was alive; she would have surely called and screamed at me “Oh my fucking god, Graham, there was sperm even at the bottom of his pants leg!” And screamed even louder when I asked her not to run it through any databases. You are such a shit for killing her.

You didn’t allow me to suck you till you came inside my mouth. Why was that? Were you worried I wouldn’t have fucked you otherwise? Or were you proving a point? Always with the douchebag point proving. I was lucky it was daylight already so I could see your cock so clearly, reaching for my lips like a magnet, slicked in my spit, dark red as blood dripping from cut veins. Or cut throats.

You pulled me up and turned me then, bent me over, spread me, put your tongue inside me. To this day when I can’t cum, for whatever reason, I just imagine that first lick of your tongue, that slow, ravenous, wet broad tongue, devouring me from my balls to my spine; and voilà, cum shoots right out of me. Can you tell I have been learning French? I opened up for you so fast, just so I could get those taste buds of yours singing at my flesh. Yes, I heard your happy humming. Every lick, every bite, every obscene sound made my eyes roll into my head. Flicking around the rim, sliding inside, pointed little fucks, relentless, wet, then slurpy, then drenched, then sucked dry. If your hands weren’t holding my ass so tightly, I would not have been able to stand.

There should be fucking “Cannibals Eat You Better” t-shirts sold in ‘every FBI gift shop near you’.

I had lube, you know, not that either I or you wanted it. Or maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you thought I was the frustrated wilting twitchy little flower, dying for anyone’s touch, as I sometimes pretended to be. Did you ever fall for any of my games, other than, you know, the one where I was the same kind of killer like you? Would you ever have agreed to play a different game? A new one?

Or did you always see right through all my bullshit? 

And yes, thank you for not insulting me by trying to stretch me. I guess you do know me. The thumb was a nice touch though, goes well with tongue. Any recipes that you would be willing to share?

By the time you were done, my head was on the floor, my ass perched up between your knees. It seems I could not remain standing after all. Did I at least stop with the delirious chanting of your name? I guess I did, once you dropped my legs, along with my ass, to the floor in front of you. Or maybe I didn’t. How did I look Hannibal? Ruined enough, for your taste? Were you contemplating fucking me on the floor? Were you tempted to take my bait? To fuck me fast and hard? Did you imagine how the floor felt against my hard-on?

Instead, you lifted me up, made me sit on top of your knees, facing away from you. Spread my legs, make my hands grab at the sides of the chair. Allowed me, and yourself, a moment of tenderness as your palms slid from my shoulders, over my back, under my ass, over my hips. You pulled me back and lifted me up, again. My back against your chest, your cock lined up against my asshole. I would have sunk so hard, so willingly onto it, if you let me. But of course you didn’t. Fighting me, denying me, controlling me, every step of our way; you will always be the perfect bait.

Inch by fucking inch you slowly lowered me. I can still feel your stubble against the skin of my neck, your cheek rubbing against mine. When the head pushed through, and you stopped, is that when I started whimpering? Or was it when you panted my name, just once, a wet whisper into my ear? Inch by fucking inch you entered me, breached me, broke me. My bull. Doing what he does best. I already knew you were freakishly strong, with all that carrying me through the snow, but that slow sink made me stop swallowing. My spit was running down my chin, I could feel it dripping over my shoulder and chest. Or was it yours? I wanted to cry when I finally felt the fabric of your pants against my ass. And then scream when you lifted me again, off your cock, and back down, just as slow. And I continued to fuck myself slowly, with your hands controlling me. Faster, when you started pushing into me. Faster still as you shifted your position underneath me slightly, the angle ruthless, while you spread my thighs further, gripping them tight from below; long, deep thrusts becoming shallower and faster as we found our rhythm. Was I squealing by then? Could you even hear me over your deep groaning breaths? Those I felt burning into my skin, as you slid your hands under my knees and yanked them back, so they were almost touching my shoulders; my only thought at that moment that I wished so fucking much that Jack and SWAT would burst through the door, their guns drawn, just to find me stretched over your lap, held firmly, bent like a doll, my legs spread, my ass exposed, my head dipped back over your shoulder, wailing your name, while you were relentlessly pounding into me; and then watch me cum and cum in waves, for the second time, without you having touched my cock even once.

I actually was sure you did cum with me that time, but as I stilled and still felt you filling me, sudden pain shooting through my ass and spine, and I laughed, partly at your ridiculous showing off of self-control, partly because I was truly impressed by it. I kept clenching hard around you on purpose, hoping I could coax you to let go, and I laughed again, because the painful pleasure was just too fucking much. I stopped when you shot off a growled-warning “Will” at me; both with the clenching and the laughing.

You kept us motionless, just lazily caressing my skin everywhere you could reach. My muscles finally slack and body relaxed, mind overflowing with nothing. Against my better judgement I allowed myself to drift off into a hazy half-sleep, nestled along your clothed limbs, lulled by your strong even breaths against my ear, the pain of you still inside my fucked flesh slowly dissipating. I hoped that’s how you being in prison would feel like.

Without warning you slid me off your cock; now, that was truly both nasty and cruel. You made me stand up, and I hated you at that moment; never could leave me in peace, could you Hannibal. You stood up too, next to me, and I wanted to plead that you don’t go out that door. I closed my eyes, and heard fabric rustling, and felt movement. (Had you walked out with that hard-on still plaguing your cock, it would have been a majestic mike drop.)

I opened my eyes when your hands were on me again, positioning me in front of you. You were sitting on my bed. On my fucking bed. Then you looked up at me. And I stopped hating you. Took my limp spent cock into your mouth, so gently. It was grateful. I was grateful. Sucked me, so gently. Devoured my balls, so gently. There was no way you could make me hard again. Pushed two fingers in my ass, so roughly. Pressed on my prostate, continuously. I was hard again. I wanted to beg you not to remove your mouth from me, just so I could watch you, watch my cock disappear into that mouth. Predictable; so predictable. But something had changed, the atmosphere between us, so soft so suddenly. You released my cock, removed your fingers, pushed yourself to sit against the headboard, my hands in yours, pulling me in, your palms on my hips again. Guiding me down, but no control, no force, no fighting me. I straddled you, and you held me. Tightly, against your chest, as I lowered myself onto you again. Slowly, again. Pain would have been unimaginable. If there was any space for it. Fucked myself and fucked you. There was nothing else; no FBI, no scars, no scalpels cutting into my face, no murders, no goodbyes, no prison, no snow, no rules and no rule of disorder, no shattered teacups-- just your fingers pressing around my rim and your cock deep inside me.

Constant motion, constant repeats of my name from your mouth, constant touch of your lips on my skin. Your breaths pouring over me. My hands on your face, your throat, your neck, just so I can feel any skin under my palms.

It was harder to fuck you while facing you.

Brushing my lips against yours, knowing what you wanted. How long? How long did we fuck? I still don’t know; you probably do. Maybe you will tell me, someday. Your hand between us, fisting my cock. My tongue seeking yours. You almost bit it off as you came. You are eerily quiet when you are cumming. I trembled, I shook, whimpering as I came into your hand. And you held me, tightly against your chest, driving your cock into me, biting down on my tongue. Would you have swallowed it, if you tore it apart? Would you have sucked and chewed all its juices first, along with those still dripping in my mouth? Do you prefer me raw, Hannibal?

Or was licking off my sperm from your hand enough for you?

There is one thing worse than losing time; regaining time. Your time to leave, and my time to stay, and watch you leave. I pushed myself off of you, put your cock inside your pants. I stalled for a second, and you laid me on the bed, on my side; you got up, you left. I watched you leave.

First thing I did was stick my finger into my asshole, soak it in your cum and suck it off. And the second, and the third thing. And second and third finger. Could you hear me where you stood? (When I woke up the next morning and still could only taste your cum on my tongue, I had to call a couple of friends to tag team me until it was gone. I can still feel it.)   

Jesus, was I pissed when the fucking motorcade came, interrupting my play. I barely managed to throw clothes on, to prevent some fully masked SWAT asshole from barging in and finding me knuckles deep inside my own ass. Once you were gone, wasn’t as much fun letting them witness my moaning your name repeatedly.

My asshole clenched so hard when I heard you call Jack’s name, and then even harder as you went to your knees in front of him. My cock was pulsing again, just at the thought of you on your knees for me worshiping it with that discriminating tongue of yours; taking me in so deep that you wouldn’t be able to breathe even through your nose because it would be buried in my crotch. Trusting me with my thrusts into you. Can I change my preferences to ‘speechless and cock hungry’?

Then they put cuffs on you, and for fuck’s sake, even if it is such a damn cliché, but I wanted to ride you, with you unable to touch me, until they locked us up in the same prison cell.

My mind, though, was split up. As usual. A part of me was thinking ‘aw, Hannibal what did you do?’ and ‘but if you are in prison, how will you fuck me again, you idiot.’ Another part of me wanted to cackle out of pure glee at how easily the Great Manipulator, the Ever Elusive Chesapeake Ripper himself could be, and was, manipulated by a simple verbal rejection. If only you had listened to your dick, Hannibal, instead to your beautifully calculating mind.

Where would we be now?

 _Justement_. At least you were right. I did want to know where you were, and where I could always find you. So here we are.

And while I know that the last fucking thing I should be doing is stroking your ginormous ego, my god, it was not easy dulling the memory of those orgasms. No dildo (married to a monogamous woman, options are limited) has the thrilling inherent viciousness that human cocks do, especially yours. Alas!

My imagination isn’t borrowed any longer, so I keep it all to myself. I am sinking into the bed, imagining sinking myself onto your cock and riding you, while you lay naked under me. Sad, isn’t it; a big part of my fantasy is undressing you. Less sad, deciding how hard do I make you fuck me. I am sure many of your psychiatry books would have a plethora of entire passages analyzing my symptoms; could you even find it in your heart to help me again, Doctor Lecter?   

Oh I am sorry, I am being so horribly rude, since it must be even worse for you, seeing that, unlike me, you probably can't even jerk off properly. If at all. Or are you gifting Doctor Bloom (and all the attentive prison medical staff) detached solo-repeats of what your cumming face looks like? I thought so. _You are aware of only one unrest; Oh, never learn to know the other!_

I do hope I didn’t make you too excited, Hannibal.

Until next time.

 

PS

Jack already came knocking at my door, before I read your letter. I should, nevertheless, thank you for the darkness and the madness warnings. But you know warnings, especially those of deepest truths, always come too late in our case.

I am working for Jack again; unwillingly, but knowingly. Hopelessly, but with a clear aim.

And I am ready to see you again.

 

 

Are you ready to see me?

Love, W.

 

 

\---------

Putting the letter pages down, Hannibal closes his eyes thinking _such a_ _clever, cunning boy_ , as sounds of “Allelujah” are rolling around and echoing throughout his mind palace.


	2. ...The Lamb

“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”

“Yes, yes, Hannibal, it’s beautiful, it really is. But I already told you: I prefer you speechless and mouth full of my cock.” Hannibal grins at him, showing him teeth and tongue drenched in the Dragon’s blood. Will’s arms entwine around Hannibal’s neck, and push him down to the ground, to his knees. There are unintelligible sounds coming from the mouth filling up underneath him. “You can speak again once we are in the house, and you’re buried inside my ass.” Will’s hands grab Hannibal’s short hair and pull roughly. “And this time, you will fucking be fully fucking naked.” His eyes roll, partly because of pleasure shooting from his sucked cock, partly because it seems Hannibal still has things to say. “Darling, I swear, if you even just try and say one more word, I will throw us both off this cliff.”

Will closes his eyes as he feels Hannibal’s mouth swallow him fully.

He always knew an undetermined number of years of foreplay would pay off, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Little Shit Will is my favorite kind of Will. Just sayin'. 
> 
> The Faust lines ("You are aware...") directly precede the "Two souls" lines Hannibal recites to Will.  
> Both are from Faust, part I, lines 1110-1113, translated by Walter Kaufmann, 1989 edition.


End file.
